Sickness and Slaves
by Time's Quill
Summary: Arthur's feeling pretty good about today. Winning both Nemeth and Mithian's favor by bringing a troublesome caravan of slave-traders to justice makes it hard not to be happy. Unfortunately, Merlin isn't doing quite so well. When old troubles mix with the new, what will the King of Camelot do?
1. Chapter 1

Arthur was a very happy man. He wasn't really the whistling type, but his steps had a noticeable spring to them that was usually missing from his walk. His pacing feet echoed loudly off the marble ceiling and halls of the foreign palace. A dirty brown cloak was draped over his shoulders, but it was opened so that the brightly shining chainmail underneath was perfectly visible. He had just arrived in the kingdom's citadel, and he hadn't wanted to keep his hosts waiting, not even for the brief amount of time it would've taken to change.

The Lady Mithian was the one whom Arthur was meeting. She had sent a messenger to him three nights ago requesting his assistance in a matter of some urgency. Camelot and Nemeth were on good terms, and he counted the Princess a friend, so he had readily agreed. He had ridden out alone for a camp of slave traders set in a far corner of Mithian's kingdom, himself disguised as a merchant from Camelot's own black market. Arthur had brought the traders to justice with nothing more than his wits, his sword, and his astonishing good looks. Oh, and his cowering manservant. Still, that didn't really count.

More than enough reason to be happy, Arthur thought cheerily. It was a job well done, and it improved relations with both Camelot's ally (Nemeth) and his friend (Mithian). Moreover, his own kingdom would be a better place without Nemeth's slave traders. They had been known to take people from Camelot, and they wouldn't be missed by anyone except their actual clients. Indeed, most people who were aware of their existence would probably rejoice once they heard the news that one more threat had been abolished by their King. The slave trade took a blow today; yes, definitely a good reason to be happy.

His sword hung loosely by his side as he walked down the citadel's hallways. Not that he believed himself to need it; he trusted this kingdom and its rulers far too much for that. Still, he knew from experience that he should always be armed, even inside his own citadel, especially when he was walking alone. Assassins could appear at any time, from any place, and he couldn't always rely on guards to protect his Royal person. The ban on magic was still running strong, and his sorcerous enemies might take this as an opportunity to try and blot out his existence.

Arthur fingered his sword. "Let them try," he thought, his lip quivering into a grin. "I'm more than a match for any sorcerer, alone or not."

And alone he was. Merlin was still in the stables, ensuring that the horses were properly taken care of. He would catch up when he felt like it, and if he didn't, well, Arthur wasn't worried. His man-servant had a habit of appearing at the most random of times and in the strangest of places; no doubt he would show up when Arthur least expected (or wanted) him to.

Arthur came to the great double doors that stood at the entrance to the council chamber. He would need to be extra courteous to Nemeth's Princess and King. Mithian had personally invited him and Merlin to stay in her palace for a few nights, and Arthur didn't want her to regret her hospitality. He cleared his throat and fixed his cape, then reached out a hand to push open the door. He rolled his shoulders, stretched his face in a wide smile, and entered the chamber.

Meanwhile, while Arthur was playing diplomat and gracious guest of royalty, Merlin was trying to get horse dung off his shoes. He growled and scraped the goo off his soles, thinking about what Arthur must have been doing right about then. Sipping fine wine and chatting with the Lady Mithian, no doubt. And what was Merlin doing? Trying not to gag. He was about to straighten up and head to what was probably a feast when he spotted dripping brown stains on his pantslegs.

"Oh, great. Really, just great."

To the best of Merlin's knowledge, this was how the rest of the night went: once he had finished cleaning the dung off his shoes, he had been greeted in the council chamber by the sight of servants cleaning up the remains of a great feast. After His Royal Pratness had finished publicly scolding his manservant for being so late and so rude to their hosts, a servant had shown Merlin to his room. It was a nice room, but Merlin was too grumpy to really care much. He splashed some water on his face, flopped into bed, and fell into an uneasy sleep.

But even Emrys couldn't know everything. Unbeknownst to the young warlock, the horse dung hadn't been cleared entirely from his body. Little particles of animal feces remained on his hands from when he had scraped the goo off his shoes. His fortune was such that when he had washed his face, the particles had gone up his nose. Even while he coughed and retched from the unexpected water entering his nostrils, the particles clung on. When he went to sleep, they were free to fester and spread their viruses through his body.

Dawn came... and went. Arthur stomped down the hallways, searching for his manservant. He hadn't come in to wake him up that morning, and despite how annoying his daily "Rise and shine!" wakeup call was, missing it meant he didn't wake up on time, which meant that his morning routine was absolutely ruined. He would teach Merlin for not aggravating him with his peppy attitude. He scratched his head and looked around the unfamiliar castle. But first, he needed to find him. He had no idea where Merlin had been put, not having retired until later that same night.

After a few minutes of wandering, he happened to cross paths with the Princess Mithian. She smoothed the front of her white dress and smiled at him. He smiled back warmly.

"Felt like sleeping in?" She asked, her tone tinged with humor.

Arthur grimaced. "Merlin," he said, by way of explanation. "Have you seen him anywhere?"

"No," she said, "I haven't." Arthur's scowl deepened. "His room is right across from yours," she said, smiling at Arthur's disgruntled expression. Arthur thanked her and headed on his way, feeling a little ashamed that he hadn't checked all the rooms in his hallway. Of course Mithian wouldn't have separated them like that. And here he had been searching the whole castle- not that he would have spent much energy looking for Merlin. He wasn't a good enough manservant to warrant such effort.

He stood in front of his own door, looking around. This hallway had at least a dozen doors in it. He scratched his head, thinking. Which one was Merlin's? 'Right across from yours' could mean anything from literally opposite from Arthur's room to just in the same hallway. He decided to start with the literal meaning and knocked three times. He didn't get an answer, but Arthur was royalty, so he went in anyway.

"There you are, Merlin!" The blonde man crossed his arms and headed towards the bed, where a familiar shape lay curled underneath the blankets. "Merlin?" His tone wasn't angry anymore. His kingly senses were tingling: something wasn't right here. He pulled back the covers a bit and pushed Merlin gently onto his back so he could see his face. Arthur's breath hissed. His friend's face was pale and sweaty. The hair was slicked down and stuck onto his head as if he had just come inside from the rain. When Arthur gently touched Merlin's forehead, he had to yank his hand away and wring it in the air. It was like touching a furnace!

"Oh, Merlin," he said softly, his blue eyes peering down at his unconscious friend, "what've you done this time?" It looked like today wouldn't quite be as happy as yesterday had been.

* * *

**A bit of explanation, I feel, is required. I'm accustomed to doing one-shots with a particular message; a multi-chaptered fic on a "normal" plotline is something that's currently outside of my comfort zone. So, that's what this is. It probably won't be any longer than three or four chapters, but that'll be enough for this exercise. Let me know what you think, and please, give me some criticism on how this goes. Practice makes permanent, not perfect, and I don't want to solidify bad habits in stone. Thanks for taking the time to read, thanks if you're taking a few seconds to drop a review, and I'll see you next chapter!**


	2. Chapter 2

___Crack! _The sound came suddenly and without warning. It disturbed the sleepy quiet of the hot, humid noon, shattering the numbing silence of a moment before. It was enough to shock anyone into a state of alarm, but there was nobody within miles of this abandoned place. Nobody still living, anyway. The now-smashed broken bottle of beer lay abandoned on the floor, its last alcoholic drops shimmering forlornly on the tips of its sharp shards. It had been crushed by a heavy boot that had descended swiftly and without warning, ending its already ruined existence as a bottle and sending what was left of the glass off to join the film of dust and dirt that coated the floor of the abandoned safehouse.

The owner of the boot that had crushed the bottle was standing in the ruins of what had once been a thriving center of Nemeth's slave trade. His thick mustache bristled as he glared all about the room, taking in the drying blood on the floor and walls and following the smear-trails that led into the woods outside the house. Only a bodies basked unfeeling in the sun's warm glow. The rest had been taken somewhere, although the man did not know their ultimate destination.

He didn't know who was responsible for the attack, either. If it had been a rival group, some sort of insignia or mark would have been left behind to boast of their victory. Instead, there was simply nothing. The man had his suspicions, but he knew better then to waste time playing guessing games. There was nobody left in the house: no slaves, and except for the few bodies outside, no slavetraders. The house was empty and quiet.

The man stepped outside, fingering his brown mustache. The sun beat down fiercely upon his shaved head, but his leather cap shielded him from any harm. His arms were bared to the sun's rays as if daring them to burn his skin, and his tunic was stretched tight over the muscular man's barrel-chested form.

"_pæþ._" He said the word so quietly that he himself could barely hear it. It was enough. A ghostly blue light appeared before him and swam lazily through the air. He grinned. It wasn't a nice grin. It wasn't the doting grin of a lover, nor the grin of a proud father. It was a shark's grin, the grin of a hunting beast that had just caught the scent of its prey. With a gesture, he sent the translucent light diving towards the ground. It glowed brighter as if in success, then floated back up to eye level.

The man directed the light forward, and it went. He followed it quickly as it sped across the ground, lighting the way and bringing him to the men responsible for the destruction of his trade. He had the trail now. There was no escape for his enemies. He would find them, and he would have his revenge.

(-o_o-)

Merlin coughed. He reached up a hand and pressed it against his head, wishing that he could sink his fingers into his forehead and rip out the fire that must be burning there. His head felt like seven suns had just decided to take up residence in it, burning and sizzling and scorching and covering his thoughts in fog, and ugh- Merlin leaned over the bed and hurled into the bucket waiting patiently on the floor.

"Thanks," Merlin said groggily to it. His voice was scratchy, and his throat felt like someone had coated it in slimy acid, but at least he was finished puking. For now, anyway. He sank back into his pillow, wishing that he wasn't sick. It was one of those times when he would rather work a full day with Arthur then be sick; a clear indication that he really wasn't well. He wished that Gaius were here. Nemeth's physician was alright, but he wasn't Gaius.

Merlin shivered. Even though his head felt so hot, so burning boiling racing hot, the rest of his body was shivering from cold. Though a superheated fog blanketed all thoughts and blurred them into obscurity, he still felt frustrated. He wanted to scream at himself: hot or cold? Pick one! His head was hot and his body was cold, and he was just left feeling confused. He shivered and pulled the blankets tighter around himself, but it didn't help much.

It was the room. Of course it was the room; what else could it be? It was dead, empty and cold, and that was why he was feeling so awfully chilly. The room had nothing in it, no life or nothing, and that must be why Merlin felt so awful. If he could stay somewhere with someone, he would feel better. Merlin was sure of this, and so, with a conviction that even the most stubborn of dogs would envy, he struggled to his feet and stumbled out of the room. The blankets trailed after him like a bridal train, and his hands were tight on his chest, holding the blankets firmly around himself.

A minute later, he collapsed onto a bed that was completely and totally different in all ways from the sad bed he'd inhabited earlier. This bed was full of life and was warm in all the right places. Merlin wrapped the new blankets over him, thickening his cocoon, and drifted off to sleep.

Meanwhile, Arthur was worried. "Maybe I should take him back to Camelot," he said to the room's only other occupant.

Mithian sighed. "He's in no state to travel, Arthur. You can't take him across the border like this."

"What am I supposed to do, then?" Arthur's voice was strained, and he tapped the back of his chair with quickly moving fingers. "He's a lousy manservant, but..." his voice trailed off.

Mithian rose from her own chair, leaving her lunch uneaten. She crossed the table and put a comforting hand on Arthur's shoulder. "He'll be fine," she said. "You're not the only one with a court physician, you know." They grinned, Arthur's blue eyes smiling into her brown ones. She continued. "Why don't you stay here a little while longer? Just until Merlin's well enough to travel. It can't do any harm, and I would enjoy the company."

Arthur was already shaking his head. "I have to get back to Camelot," he said immediately.

Mithian raised an eyebrow. "And leave Merlin here?"

Arthur pushed away from the chair and walked a few steps away, running a frustrated hand through his hair. He felt like a rat caught in a trap. On the one hand, he needed to get back to Camelot. On the other hand, Mithian was right: there was no way Merlin could travel like this. Arthur had been visiting him as often as he could, and his manservant hadn't even been able to speak properly. He'd been mumbling the strangest things; Arthur was used to Merlin not making much sense, but this was on a completely different level. Merlin couldn't make the journey to Camelot in his state, and there was no way in the Five Kingdoms that Arthur was leaving him behind.

Mithian was speaking. Arthur tore himself from his thoughts and did his best to listen, trying to keep thoughts of his manservant out of his head while the Princess was talking. "I have to go," she said. "Let me know what you decide. Our messengers are at your disposal, if you wish to contact anyone. If you need anything, just let me know."

Arthur thanked her and watched as she left the room, closing the door behind her. He sighed, ran a hand through his blonde hair again, and made for the door too. He needed to sit down for a bit.

In the hallways, when he was walking to his room, he noted the sunlight coming in through the windows. It was beautiful outside: barely a cloud in the sky, with the sun shining merrily down on the earth below. And yet, he watched with a vague sense of detachment. It didn't really make him feel very good, for some reason.

Arthur closed the door to his room behind him. He was already pulling off some of the more ceremonial pieces of his outfit, ready to relax, when he saw a huddled shape in his bed. He crossed the room to investigate, but even as he reached a hand to shake it, he already knew what it was.

Sure enough, when he pushed the form onto its back, he saw a familiar mop of black hair. "Merlin," he groaned. He wasn't upset to see his manservant, more of... worried? Was that the word? Arthur wasn't sure.

He took a good look at Merlin's face. It was pale, too pale, and shimmering with sickly sweat. Arthur felt his forehead with a hand and pulled it away quickly, wincing. Yep, still burning up. Arthur sighed and poked him in the side. "Merlin."

Merlin moaned but did not respond. It took a few more pokes for him to crack open an eye. "What?" His voice was slurred and strained from exhaustion.

"This is my bed," Arthur said, as if speaking to a toddler. "Your bed is that way." He jerked his head towards the door.

"I know," Merlin said, his eyes already drifting closed. "This one's better."

Arthur crossed his arms. "We're in the guest wing- all the rooms are the same." Merlin's response was unintelligible, and even when Arthur poked him again, he still didn't respond. Arthur sighed heavily. He would have to burn all the sheets. Mithian wouldn't like that, though- probably better to just have the servants wash them with boiling water.

Arthur took a moment to consider the situation. The physician had assured him and Mithian that Merlin wasn't contagious, so he didn't have to worry about catching... whatever this was. There was plenty of room- the bed could easily fit three people. He removed the non-essential bits of his getup, taking off piece by piece until he was ready for resting. He settled into bed, still thinking. He rationalized that even if he sent Merlin back to his own room, the idiot would just come stumbling back in and wake Arthur up. His manservant was bad enough at following orders when he was well; Arthur really doubted that Merlin would listen to him at all like this. No, if he sent Merlin away, the idiot would just come back and bother him.

Arthur's breathing slowed as he began to melt into his pillow. No way he was going through that. He'd rather Merlin stay with him than have Merlin continually bother him. A little voice inside his head whispered to him that that wasn't the real reason he was having Merlin stay, that in truth, he had let Merlin sleep with him because he couldn't bear to disturb his sick friend. Arthur grimaced into the bed and shoved the voice away. As if. He'd kick Merlin out on his rear if he thought it'd do any good. No, it was just that Merlin was so annoying, and Arthur was so tired, that it was really just best to let the manservant stay.

With that comforting thought in mind, Arthur felt free to fall asleep. He wasn't really worried about Merlin; he would get better, like he always did. When he recovered, they would set off for Camelot. Hopefully things wouldn't fall apart in their absence. He really didn't mind the idea of staying in Mithian's kingdom for a little while longer, but he knew his kingdom too well to actually consider taking a vacation. Camelot needed her king; she needed someone to rule her and protect her from all of the deranged madmen who sought to tear her down. Arthur snuggled deeper into his pillows. Yes, they would depart for Camelot first thing once Merlin recovered. Arthur let loose one last sigh and felt himself drift off to sleep.

* * *

(-o_o-)

* * *

**Well, there it is, the next chapter. I think this is going well so far; what do you think? If you could please drop off a quick sentence in the review box, it'd be really appreciated. Did you like the thing with the slavetrader? Were you surprised to find him using magic? Thank you for reading, thank you if you're about to share your thoughts, and have a nice day! Ciao!  
**


	3. Chapter 3

The thundering of hooves filled Arthur's ears as he rode his chestnut stallion over the gently sloping hills and green, grassy plains of Mithian's kingdom. The Princess of the land galloped on her snow-white horse beside him, their two steeds perfectly matched in stride. Some of the Lady's court rode behind them, but neither Arthur nor Mithian paid them any mind.

Arthur hadn't really wanted to come on this hunting trip. As much as he loved the sport, and as much as he enjoyed Mithian's company, he didn't feel comfortable being so far away from the castle. More specifically, so far away from Merlin. His manservant had been consuming his thoughts ever since he had discovered his illness. He had spent every available moment keeping watch over his idiot of a manservant, trying to learn more about what was wrong and helping the physician in any way he could. And thank God he did! It was shocking how many things the physician needed to keep Merlin well, things that Arthur had always immediately dashed off to get. If he hadn't always been there, who knew what would have happened?

Arthur understood that he was stressed. He was stressed over the idea of a king-less Camelot, stressed over the fear of overstaying his welcome, and most of all, stressed over Merlin's state. Was he recovering? Would he recover soon? Would he recover at all? He knew he was stressed, but that didn't change the fact that he was. He was worried, and the knowledge of the worry's presence did nothing to vanquish the worry itself. The physician was constantly assuring him that Merlin would be fine, but as the days passed, Arthur's confidence shrunk to the merest flicker of candlelight in a room of oppressive darkness. Merlin needed to recover, but Arthur was beginning to fear that he wouldn't, that he would fall farther and farther into illness, and that he would eventually- Arthur shook his head and broke into a hard gallop.

The raven-haired manservant was also on Mithian's mind. She had always known how much Arthur cared for Merlin, but she had been surprised to find how badly his friend's state had affected him. He had spent nearly every available moment by Merlin's side, anxiously watching over him and repeatedly snapping questions to her increasingly overwrought physician. It had been for all of their sakes that Mithian had requested the King to accompany her on a hunting trip into a nearby forest. He had been cooped up and growing increasingly irritable, and her physician had been on the verge of tears when Mithian had walked into the room.

The Princess of Nemeth watched as Arthur pushed forward, breaking out from their matched pace. She hoped Merlin would recover soon. Mostly for his sake, obviously, but also for Arthur's sake. And for the sake of all her staff. Especially her physician. The watery-eyed man had told both her and Arthur that Merlin would recover nicely, but that hadn't seemed to do much for the blonde-haired man. He still stressed over Merlin, even when Mithian dragged him off to remote areas of the castle to try and get his mind off the raven-haired man. Nothing so far had really worked.

Arthur had a pattern that he fell into every time she did this. It always went the same way, no matter what they were doing. Arthur would begin the activity (be it eating or training with her knights or walking through the city) stressed, his eyes continually darting in the direction of the room where Merlin slept, his fingers and feet tapping irregularly all the while. He would then begin to become absorbed in what they were doing, laughing and joking like a man unencumbered. Mithian's spirits would rise, hoping against hope that her plan was working. Then, inevitably as the sun's setting, the laugh would fade, the smile would drop, and before she could say a single word of reassurance, there would be nothing left of him but the sound of rapidly moving footfalls and the lingering echoes of excuses hanging in the air. Hopefully this hunt would go differently. And if it didn't, well... These woods were a good twenty minute ride from the castle. At least she'd bought her poor physician some time. Mithian made a mental note to give the man some nice, relaxing time off once their visitors left.

The sound of Arthur's voice reached her ears, and she quickly focused on his words. He wasn't pulling out already, was he? No, not in front of her court, surely! This hunt was in his honor- even the blonde King wouldn't be so rude.

"What'll happen to them? The slavetraders, I mean."

Mithian breathed a small sigh of relief. Good, he wasn't thinking about Merlin. The slavetraders hadn't been very prominent in her mind, so it took a minute for her to gather her thoughts enough to give a satisfactory answer.

"The possession of another human being is a severe crime in Nemeth," she said eventually. "The kidnapping, storing, and selling of innocent people like cattle is punishable by death."

"As it is in Camelot." Arthur's response was automatic, a diplomatic agreement that had been trained into him as a way to demonstrate common ground. Realizing this, he quickly followed it with something more personal. "No man is worth less than another, and I will not allow anyone to treat anyone else like dirt. I was happy to bring those traders to justice."

Mithian made a soft sound of agreement and murmured her thanks. Their horses had slowed to allow them a pleasant conversation, and her keen eyes noticed that the accompanying members of her court had maintained a respectful distance back. "I suppose that also explains why you've been treating Merlin so well. There aren't many who'd do so much for a simple servant." The words had scarcely left her lips before she was cursing herself. The point of this expedition was to take Arthur's mind off Merlin! What if this triggered a stress attack and made him ride back to his friend's side?

Despite her worries, Arthur seemed fine. "I am the King," he said, "if I can't follow my rules, how can I expect anyone else to? Even if he is the worst servant in the Five Kingdoms."

There was more to it, of course. Mithian knew people, sometimes better than they knew themselves. It didn't take any amount of gifts to see the bond between Arthur and Merlin or how much they cared for one another. She was driven by a desire to know as much about them as possible, to understand the unique force binding them together... But she knew better than to continue this line of conversation. She'd gotten lucky so far, but if they started talking about how much Merlin meant to Arthur, the blonde King may turn right around and ride back to the castle without a second thought. Mithian sighed. To have friends like that, friends who would do anything for each other, friends who cared regardless of status and rank, friends who loved unconditionally... She would give her kingdom to have such friends.

Arthur looked at the forest around him musingly. The sunlight shone emerald green and golden bright through the canopy of leaves overhead, and the towering presences of the massive trees all around him made him feel small. In his reflective mood, it made him think about the importance of every man from the perspective of the ancient trees. They didn't see any difference between people like Arthur and people like Merlin, and in the grand scheme of the universe, was there any?

"It's funny," he said.

"What?"

He blinked at Mithian's unexpected reply. She'd been so quiet that he'd almost forgotten that anyone else had been riding beneath the trees. "Oh, nothing," he said with a little laugh. "It's just that... What I said; I used to treat everyone who wasn't nobility like dirt. That's actually how Merlin and I met, you know." He grinned, barely noticing Mithian shift uncomfortably in her saddle. "Called me a prat, you know. He was always so honest with me-"

"Tracks!" Mithian's relieved voice burst Arthur's wistful reminisces like a needle popping a bubble. "There!" She was leaning forward in her saddle, pointing down to the ground.

Arthur spurred his horse forward. The hunt was on!

(-O_O-)

Seven people: three harmless nobles, two knights, one Princess, and one King. The King of Camelot, unless his eyes deceived him. The tracking spell had faded when this party approached; the ones responsible for the loss of both his comrades and his business were here. He fingered his blade from his hiding place up in the branches of a large oak tree, looking down on them with calculating eyes. But whom exactly should he kill? He quickly ruled out the noblemen in their puffed up suits; they couldn't have raided the safe house. The knights were like dogs, mere tools to be pointed in the desired direction. His blade slid silently from his sheath. So, it came down to the two Royals. He'd be happy to kill them both, if there was no way to determine who was the target of his revenge.

"...the slavetraders..."

The words floated up on the wind to his perch amidst the shadowed branches of the great oak tree, and his ears perked up as he leaned in, trying to hear what was being said.

"...I was happy to bring those traders to justice."

And there it was. A vicious smile grew on the man's face. How nice of his prey to identify itself, and with such a damning statement too. It looked like Nemeth would eventually come to see itself in the hands of a woman after all. The party was passing beyond his tree now. He dashed from branch to branch until he was a nice distance ahead on the path, but he stayed close enough to follow if they changed their course. He would wait for them to pass underneath. Then, he would strike.

Yet, just as he was about to fall from the tree and pierce the blonde man with his sword, something stopped him. Words spoken by his prey. The man had a friend for a servant, a friend whom he cared about. Interesting. He followed them a little ways longer as they hunted, wanting to hear more. He could still kill the King at any time, but he was a curious man. Perhaps this could work to his advantage.

(-O_O-)

Arthur slung the stag's carcass over the back of his horse. "A fine catch," he said proudly, patting its still-warm side.

Mithian strolled past him and rubbed the dead beast's head. "Thank you," she said. "I thought so myself." Her voice held the barest hint of a smirk. "It'll look nice on my wall."

Arthur turned to face her, his hand still on the stag's side. "Hold on a minute," he said, "I killed it; shouldn't I get its head?"

Mithian laughed. "If you remember, Arthur, it was my bolt that felled it."

Arthur's hand clutched the beast possessively. "It was not!" He said, protesting hotly. "I fired the killing shot, not you!"

"Really?" Mithian said. "Remind me where your bolt hit?"

Arthur glared at her and tapped a bleeding hole in the stag's side. "There," he said. "A killing shot. The head is mine." He crossed his arms in victory.

Without a word, Mithian walked across to the dead animal's head and pointed. There was a hole in the left side of its nose that was bleeding steadily. "I do believe that a head shot is far more fatal than one to the side," she said. "I'll take that head, thank you."

Arthur glared at her for a moment, his arms still crossed. Mithian began to laugh as she watched him struggle. He finally said, "it's not about the shot, it's about who killed it. I still hit it first, even if you did pick its nose for it."

"Well," a laughing Mithian said as she mounted her horse, "I say I hit first. Where are we now? But we'd best be getting back," she said quickly, overriding Arthur's objections, "it'll be dark soon."

"What?" Arthur looked up to the skies, peering through the canopy of leaves and branches to see the sun's light fade from the clouds above. "God, Merlin!" He ran a hand through his blonde hair, stress immediately beginning to pull at his eyes. "How long have we been out?"

Mithian bit her lip. "Three, maybe four hours?"

Arthur hissed, quickly climbing back onto his horse. "Four hours?" His voice climbed up the registers, his words straining as he forced them out in disbelief. "Four hours? We have to get back," he said, his voice bordering on the frantic. "We have to get back now!"

"Arthur, calm down!" Mithian's horse stepped forward to block his path. "Merlin will be fine!"

Arthur's hand seemed fixed to his head. He kept running his fingers through his blonde hair as he spoke. "Four hours, Mithian. What if-"

"My physician has been taking good care of him," Mithian said firmly. "Merlin will be fine." When Arthur showed no sign of reassurance, she continued. "You've been stressing out your entire stay, Arthur," she said softly. "You've been worrying about Merlin since he got sick, and it's been showing. You needed the break."

Arthur sucked in a few deep breaths. After a minute he exhaled and nodded quietly. Mithian backed her horse out of his way, and the two of them trotted back towards the castle. The five others trailed behind them. They had maintained a proper distance from the two Royals, and while they hadn't heard their conversations, they could guess the cause of the King's distress. Most of the castle knew about the King's distress over the state of his manservant, and the staff's anxiety levels had come to peak just at the sight of him.

It wasn't that the visiting Royal was bad to them; indeed, he was kinder than most nobility the staff knew. No, it was more of the aura of worry that seemed to constantly surround him, an infective anxiety that seeped into anyone that dared to stand near him. Generally, when he spoke to the servants, it was to procure something for the physician, and he treated everything (from hot water to fresh sheets) as if that something were a matter of life and death. It was stressful for the staff, especially since a good half of what Arthur sought was rubbish, useless junk that the physician used simply to get the anxious blonde man out of his hair for a few minutes. The inhabitants of Mithian's castle felt almost as invested in Merlin's speedy recovery as the King himself. Once the manservant recovered, the King would leave, and no matter how nice the man was, he would not be greatly missed.

The hunting party passed from the woods and began the ride back to the castle. Once they were out of sight, a man dropped down from the trees. He looked out to where he knew they had gone. No smile graced his harsh features; he thought only of his next move. It was clear to him that Arthur Pendragon was responsible for the downfall of his business and cohorts. He would have his revenge on the man, but not quite in the way he had originally imagined. Death was too easy and too painless. How could he end the man so swiftly when he knew of a better way to hurt him? His manservant, this Merlin. From what he had gathered, both from the discussions between the Royals and from the gossiping chatter of the three noblemen, Arthur cared a very great deal for this man.

A plan took form in the man's mind. It was a simple plan, really. Torture Arthur by hurting his manservant, then, when his misery had peaked, kill them both. Simple, but oh so effective. Now the man smiled, for he knew the way he would exact his revenge. This was turning out to be a very good day indeed.

* * *

**Well? What'd you think? I wrote this with a friend's iPad, since my computer isn't available at the moment. It was frustrating to write, but I'm also getting the feeling that it forced me to slow down and take my time describing things. Is there a noticeable difference in quality? Also, quick question: I'm wondering whether Mithian should be added to the character-list. She is pretty prominent, even though I wouldn't call her a Main character. What do you think? If you could drop off a quick review in the box below, it'd mean a lot. Thanks for reading, thanks if you're about to review, and I hope you have a good day/night! Ciao!**

**Also, just as a last note when I went to publish this chapter, I saw that the story had exactly 666 views. A perfect time to post a new chapter, I thought. XD**


	4. Chapter 4

Bubbles. They were everywhere, shifting and popping and blooming all around his head, joining with other bubbles, breaking off into new bubbles, and fizzing out without a bubble trace. Bubbles, bubbles, more bubbles than he could possibly count surrounded him, all in different shapes and sizes, all dancing merrily about. He saw red bubbles, blue bubbles, star bubbles, pillow bubbles, heart bubbles, even dragon bubbles! They bounced off his knee and bopped his nose, and he was laughing, chasing them, trying to grab them. The world was dark around him, black as pitch, and the only light was coming from the bubbles flowing all around him. Merlin liked the bubbles. There was one bubble, though, that scared him. It had a beautiful outline, shimmering gold like the purest firefly, but the inside was all filled with gelatinous, murky darkness. It was making its way towards him, rolling along through the pitch darkness of night like an ominous boulder of doom, and Merlin was filled with sadness. Such a beautiful outline, but the bubble's filling was nasty and dark. He reached out a hand towards it, and the bubble made a hole for him, allowing him entry. He scooped out the muck that was shifting around within it, leaving the bubble with only its outline, which shone pure as gold against the world's dark backdrop.

The door banged open, and Merlin woke with a start. He was staring up at the ceiling, his heart pounding from the sudden wake-up call. He braced himself for the dizzying flash of heat that he had lived with for the last few days, but surprisingly, it never came. Instead, he was filled with a feeling. He wasn't sure what to call this feeling, nor even what its defining characteristics were, but he knew that the feeling was there. It darted around his mind like a buzzing hummingbird, pulling his thoughts around and around and around as if his train of thought was tied securely to the bird's tail. It made him feel simultaneously euphoric and lazy, a heady combination that left him grinning up at the blue bedhangings above his head.

A voice interrupted his musings. It was a warbling voice, unsteady as a leaf's flight and trembling as a baby bird. No, that simile didn't work, this was an older voice. Trembling as an elderly bird? Merlin scowled. That was just stupid. An image of a bearded bluebird hobbling around on a cane came to mind, and he grinned. Wait, wasn't someone speaking to him? He made himself ignore the image, which was currently croaking angrily at a loud bunch of baby birds, and focus. F-o-o-o-o-o-c-u-s. What a funny word.

"...down."

Merlin blinked and stared at the physician. He was a watery-eyed man with a bald head and with random bristles curling down his chin in a vain attempt at facial hair. He wasn't old, Merlin thought, not really. Old was Gaius. This was more... not young. Yeah, that was a good way to think about it. A very good way to think about it indeed. Wait, think about what again?

The man was looking expectantly down at him, as if he was expecting Merlin to say something.

"Sorry," Merlin said, "what?"

"Your fever's gone down," the physician said patiently, his pale blue eyes blinking slowly. Kinda like a frog! Merlin grinned again and sniggered. He was a fro-o-o-o-g. Wait until he told Mithian! "I know," Frogface said, "very good news." He coughed, which Merlin found strange. Frogs didn't cough; silly Frogface. "You're not better yet," he continued, and Merlin was touched by the sadness in his voice. Frogface really did care! "But you're on the road to recovery. I'm sure His Majesty will be happy to hear that."

"Arthur?" Merlin said, the name slurring a bit. "Prat's here?" He sounded so drunk, haha. Too bad he wasn't actually drunk. Not that he'd been drunk very often- well, not nearly enough to make Gwaine happy. He wondered if- if he could fool Frogface into thinking that he was drunk.

"Not here, no. He's down with the knights, training." The physician muttered something, but Merlin wasn't listening. Frogface began to pack away his bottles, and they clinked and clacked and made the most beautiful of symphonies.

"Arthur doesn't train," he slurred, "Arthur... Arthurs. He's very- very good at that."

The clinking and clacking stopped. Merlin felt sad- it had been a very pretty tune. "Pardon?"

"He Arthurs. You kno-o-o-o-w," Merlin waved a hand in the air in lazy swoops. Like a vulture that was about to swoop down and nab an unsuspecting mouse. "Wapow!" His hand crashed down and seized his unprepared other hand, and the two began to wrestle in fatal fervor. "Like that."

"I see." Frogface's voice was slow. Maybe he was tired. He approached slowly, almost like a predator would, and Merlin got a little worried. He didn't resemble a fly to Frogface, did he? That would be really, really, really bad. "Merlin, how are you feeling right now?"

Merlin's hands abandoned their wrestling match and flew up into the air so they could jig. "Wonderful!" He said, his voice nearly trilling like a beautiful bird's. "How're you?"

He felt a hand on his forehead. Frogface's skin wasn't nearly as wet as it should have been. That wasn't a frog-hand, that was a man-hand. Maybe he really wasn't a frog after all. Or... or maybe that was exactly what he wanted Merlin to think! Maybe he was just in disguise, hiding his frog-ness with magic! Was Frogface a sorcerer? Merlin didn't want to believe it, but it all made sense! The normalcy of his immediate appearance, the thinly veiled frog-ness beneath the disguise- but he had met his match in Merlin. He was a super powerful warlock, and he could see through the illusion. Frogface couldn't hide his true nature from him!

"I'll get you," he whispered to the aquatic magic user.

"Pardon?"

Merlin rolled his head back and laughed. "You can't fool me, Frogface," he said, "I can see stra-a-a-a-ight through your disguise," he wiggled his fingers in the sorcerer's face, "and I'll get you!"

The hand left his head. Merlin felt relieved that the deceiver had stopped touching him. He had felt the lies and the frog magic seeping through his head and infecting his whole being, turning his own magic to gross fishy stuff. There was some more clinking and clanking, and a bottle of yellow juice was dangling before his face.

"Wassat?" Merlin tried to focus on it, but it was like- like trying to pin down a spinning caravan of exploding mice. It just couldn't be done!

"Juice," Frogface said. "You seem thirsty."

Merlin stared at the bottle. "Thash not juice," he said. "That's frog-blood, and you, you're trying to turn me into a frog," he leaned in closer to the bald man's face, "like you. But you know what, it's not gonna work. I've got you beaten, Frogface. I'm going to take this and prove- prove that you're a frog." He grabbed the bottle and drained it.

The next thing he knew, the door was bursting open. It must've scared the sunshine away, because Merlin sadly saw that it was now hiding on the other side of the room. The bed was all dark without the sunshine, and Merlin felt cold, so cold. "No," he moaned, his hand feebly lifting towards the sunshine, "come back!"

"You called me?" The calm voice was incredibly familiar. Merlin's head snapped round and he saw the Princess of Nemeth, Mithian herself, standing in the doorway. She had entered behind Arthur, who was already making his way over to Merlin.

"Ah, yes," a not-young voice said from the far corner. Merlin started- how had Frogface gotten over there so quickly? He instantly knew the answer: he had jumped. Using his super froggy powers of bouncing, he had boing'd away from Merlin while the warlock was drinking his juice. And he'd taken the sunshine with him, that amphibious villain! Jumping wouldn't save him, though, now that Mithian and Arthur were both here. Merlin would expose Frogface's secret, and Arthur would ensure that the deceiver would never flap his gills at anyone ever again. "It's about Merlin."

"What's happened?" It was the voice of an enormous Prat. Merlin knew that voice, and he looked up to see Arthur sitting beside their bed. Well, 'their bed'- it was really more of Merlin's bed. Merlin owned it, after all. It was his by right of 'I saved you so everything you have is mine.' He just allowed Arthur to use it too. "Is he alright?"

"No," Merlin said grumpily, "I'm hungry. Get me breakfast."

Arthur's blue eyes widened. "Excuse me?"

"Ah'm hungry," Merlin said, his words slurring, his hand slapping down on the bed with the decisive force that all kings everywhere envied. "Get me breakfast!"

Arthur turned away from him, probably just to laze off and avoid getting him food, the lazy bugger. "What's wrong with him?" Merlin wanted to punch the stupid prat. He had just told him; he was hungry!

"The good news is that his fever's gone." Frogface smiled widely at the Royal Pratty Prat Prathead. Arthur didn't seem too pleased, though, and Merlin grinned. He would have Frogface's head in the stocks, oh yes. "The bad news is that he's gone a little, well-"

"Senile!" Merlin finished the sentence like the genius he was. He couldn't allow Frogface to spread his lily pad of lies to Mithian and Arthur. He leaned in to Mithian, who was sitting and regarding the whole scene with the grace and poise of a dying rat. Merlin felt like slapping himself at the thought. Mithian wasn't a rat; she was a beautiful Princess! "I'm an old man, you know," he whispered. His blue eyes stared deep into her dark ones, and he shivered with laughter. He could feel her gaze piercing down the levels of his soul and staring into his inner being. It made him giggle, because he knew that his inner being was comprised wholly and totally of crushed candy canes and lying licorice lollipops. "But, but, but you can only tell a smidgen of the time." He raised an index finger to his lips and whispered to Mithian. "Shh! Don't tell- don't tell Arthur!"

"Delusional." The physician who was really a frog said. Merlin giggled and collapsed back into his pillow. Arthur made a strangled sound, like a geese that was having its neck wrung. Frogface hurried to continue. "This is probably the end of the illness," he said quickly. "Now that the fever's gone, it should only be a matter of time until he fully recovers."

"Is there anything you can do?" Mithian asked. Merlin turned his head (for he was far too tired to actually lift it) and stared at the beautiful Princess. She was looking down at him in gentle concern, and he felt himself begin to be sucked into her big, dark eyes. Like a whirlpool of warmth, tugging him deeper and deeper and deeper...

"There's nothing that needs doing, your Highness." Frogface's voice was smooth and reassuring. It was probably the voice he used to draw in flies. Was he planning to eat Mithian? Merlin wouldn't let that happen. "He just needs to rest."

"He needs to eat!" Merlin said. "He's starving!"

"Merlin!" Arthur hissed, leaning in.

"Arthur!" Merlin hissed back, also leaning so that the two were practically nose-to-nose.

"What are you doing?"

"Starving, that's what." He raised his index finger and poked the Prat in the chest with it. "Bring me food, slave!"

Mithian spoke up, and it sounded like there was a laugh hiding somewhere in her voice. Why would it hide from Merlin? Merlin felt sad. "I will have the servants-"

"No!" Merlin said, crossing his arms and pouting. "Arthur has to do it."

The blonde King glared at his manservant, his own arms crossed. Merlin glared right back. Blue met blue in a fierce battle of wits, neither of them willing to back down or surrender. Merlin's gaze bored through Arthur's eyes like a drill, carving a tunnel that was steadily reaching into the Prat's empty cranium. There wasn't anything in there, but with the tunnel in place, Merlin would be free to reach in and put his own brain in there. Then Merlin would be able to control both himself and the King's self.

"Perhaps," Frogface said, clearing his webby throat with another faux cough that Merlin really wasn't fooled by, "you should go, your Majesty." Arthur gave a strangled whine, almost like a pig that was being throttled. "In his state, he's liable to refuse any food not presented by your own royal person." Frogface was using his fly-catcher voice again, all silky and respectful and smooth. Merlin didn't trust that voice, nope, not one bit.

Still. "Listen to Frogface, Arthur." Merlin smirked at the King-turned-slave.

"I'll get you for this, Merlin," Arthur hissed. He rose from his chair and stomped out of the room with all the dignity of a grumpy cow. The door slammed shut behind him, and the shockwave that spread through the room was so great that Merlin was astonished to find that the whole castle wasn't crumbling to dust all around him.

"Frogface?" The laughter that had been so cleverly playing hide-and-seek in Mithian's voice was now peeking its head out into the open.

"Yeah," Merlin said, his head rolling over so he could face her. "E's really a- a frog, see. Tried to turn me into a frog and all, too."

"Mm, I see," Mithian said seriously, nodding her head wisely. "Good thing he didn't."

"Yeah," Merlin said, grinning. "I was too clever for him." He sighed and leaned back into his pillow. "Ah like you," Merlin said groggily. "You listen. Prat never listens."

Mithian glanced out the door, to where His Royal Prat Pratty Pratness had gone to fetch Merlin's food. "I'm sure he does," she said. "He just doesn't show it. He cares about you, Merlin."

"The tide don't care about the moon," Merlin grumbled, "the moon makes the tide, but the tide never notices."

Mithian sighed and leaned back in her chair. She didn't know how to respond to that. She didn't know how to respond to any of this, really. Ever since Merlin had taken ill, her castle had been flipped upside down. Arthur was reduced to an anxious, overbearing neurotic; her physician was pushed to the point of tears; and her staff was driven up the wall by Arthur's behavior. She wanted so badly to retire to her chambers and drink a nice calming cup of tea, but the time for rest had not yet come. Mithian had the feeling that she wouldn't be able to properly relax until these two men were safely outside her kingdom's borders.

Her physician had left a damp cloth by the bedside table. Mithian took it and began to carefully dab at Merlin's face. His fever may have been all but gone, but he was still sweating horribly. Mithian felt the tension in her shoulders dissolve as she tended to him. It was strangely relaxing to care for a sick friend.

Merlin shifted in the sheets and opened his eyes. Their gazes met. Blue stared into brown, and Mithian's hand froze, still resting on his sweaty forehead. Something seemed to stir in her chest- an alien sensation that made her breath hitch and her heart beat a little faster. Warmth seemed to spread through her face, and however much she might have desired it, she couldn't look away from his blue eyes. Merlin opened his mouth to speak.

His words would never be spoken. Whether they would have been the deranged mumblings of a sick man or something... something else... something that the alien within her chest seemed to simultaneously long for and fear, Mithian would never know. All she knew was that in an almighty crash that sent her jumping away from Merlin, the tall window on the far side of the room exploded inwards. The physician fell to the floor in a dead faint, Mithian immediately stepped between Merlin's bed and the exploding window, and the boy in question raised his head weakly to try and see what was happening. The effort was too much for him, though, and he collapsed back into his pillow with a groan.

A man was standing amid the shattered glass. Mithian's trained eyes only had time to capture a few details (bare arms, capped head, thick mustache) before he struck. His hand lashed out, his eyes glowed gold, and Mithian felt something slam into her chest. The Princess was weightless for less than a second, her stomach lurching horribly, before pain exploded in her back. She crumpled to the floor, and when she gathered the strength and presence of mind to look up, the man already had Merlin hoisted over his shoulder.

"Stop!" Her cry was weak, and the man didn't spare a glance for her as he moved back to the shattered window frame. "No! Merlin!" It was too late to do anything. The man had jumped- quite literally, jumped- out of the room and into the open air. Mithian stumbled to her feet and ran over to the wall, peering down the tower wall. He was nowhere to be seen.

The door opened. "Here's your stupid food, you ungrateful-" There was a sharp intake of breath and a clatter as something crashed to the floor. "Mithian!"

The addressed Princess turned. Arthur was standing in the doorway, staring wide-eyed at the scene. A tray lay at his feet, food trapped underneath it and smearing the floor around it. His eyes moved from Mithian, standing by the broken window, to the shards of glass lying everywhere on the floor, to the crumpled heap of robes in the corner that was the unconscious physician, and then, finally, to the empty bed in the center of the room.

"Arthur," Mithian said, biting her lip as she glanced between the empty window and the visiting Royal. "I-"

It was too late for words. The King of Camelot had already ran from the room, his footsteps echoing loudly in the dead silence. Mithian hesitated, looking between her unconscious physician and the shattered window, then hefted up her dress and ran after him.

* * *

(-o_o-)

* * *

**This week's match: a tag-team between Team Author and Team Writer's-Block-Meets-Graduation-Week. It was a long, hard slog, but eventually Team Author emerged victorious. Lesson for the day: don't write past the chapter break and then agonize over why things aren't flowing. In other news, I've started working on another story! I decided to try a different process and just write it all out before posting the first chapter, just to see how that works. I'll make sure to mention it here when it's done, but keep an eye out! c:**

**I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! I'm a little nervous about it, for obvious reasons: humor is risky. If people mentally chuckle, everything's fine. If they don't, well... Nightmare on Fanfic Street. I would also like to add a disclaimer that I've been meaning to mention for a while: I haven't studied medicine or illnesses. Ever. I have no idea what really would happen if someone snorted horse feces, nor do I know if it's normal for delusions to come at the end of a fever. I'm just trusting to the Willing Suspension of Disbelief. XD**

**Let me know if you liked this! Did the humor work? Needless to say, I hope it did. It was fun to write, and I hope it was fun to read. Thoughts, criticisms- anything you like, just drop it off in the box below. Thanks for taking the time to read, thanks if you're about to leave me a review, and have a nice day! Ciao!**


	5. Chapter 5

Golden fire burned in a circle around the dark hawthorn tree. Night was turned to day by the brightness of the flames, and the golden hue of the flames was matched only by the power pooled in the eyes of the man standing just outside the circle. His left hand was outstretched, and magic radiated from his form like heat from a fire. His raven hair was blown about by the fierceness of the power stirring the air, and his red neckerchief was flapping about by that same magic-born wind.

A man was tied to the tree, bound to the dark wood by ropes conjured by the Warlock's magic. He struggled and fought against his restraints to no avail; his magic and muscles were not enough to free him from the other man's might. His dark eyes shone with fear, and his thoughts whirled around as if caught in a mighty tempest. He tried to focus on the other man's chanting, but the words were of such power and magnitude that they slipped from his understanding. He simply didn't have the power, or the knowledge, to grasp what the manservant was doing to him.

Manservant; pah! The sorcerer before him was no lowly servant, friend to the King or no. This was a man of power, a man of undeniable might. A man to be feared. If only the trader had known this before, things might've turned out differently. He had treated his captive well at first, offering his prisoner food which he himself had made. The man- boy, he had thought originally- had been glad to accept the gift, for he was weak and had only just finished recovering from a debilitating illness. As his strength grew, they had begun to talk.

_A crime? To you, to Camelot, to Nemeth, maybe. But to me, and to many other countries, the slave-trade is a perfectly legitimate business._

_Right and wrong don't change across borders, trader. Slavery is a crime, no matter where it is. _

Pleading. That's what his captive resorted to. Initially, the manservant had been angry at the trader, hotly expanding on the evils of slavery and the consequences it held for the innocents of the world. He had been angry, but the trader didn't blink in the face of the boy's ire. What did it matter what this puny manservant thought of him? When fury had failed him, his captive lowered his voice to an imploring, pleading whisper, as if by appealing to the trader's gentler nature he could change what lay within his captor's heart.

_Don't you understand how much pain you cause? Men, women, children- don't you care?_

Pathetic. He didn't care about them; he only cared about his money. He forbid his thoughts to dwell on the people he took, knowing that only doubt and self-destruction lay down that road. He purposely avoided thinking about them, instead turning his back on their fates and concentrating solely on himself. He tuned out their screams and focused on the feel of gold running between his fingers. What else could he do?

_Tell me something: how is it that people like you are made? Are you just born wicked?_

No. He was born like the rest of them: in squalor and filth. He had been bound and chained like the others, men in hardened leather and soft furs haggling over his future without a second thought for the crying boy in the corner. He had refused to accept his fate; he had struggled and fought his way out of the destiny assigned to him by other men. He was living proof that slaves had the power to change; it wasn't his fault if they refused to do anything but cower before the faces of their so-called masters. He looked out for himself.

The boy had taken him by surprise, stunning him with a power that the trader had not suspected him to possess. How could he have? The Pendragons were famed for their hatred of all things magical; how could the trader have guessed that the King's very own manservant was a sorcerer of such magical might? It defied all reason and expectation! Yet here he was, tied to the tree. What had been the catalyst; what had he said that had so provoked the young man?

_Arthur will find me. He always does._

_Weren't you listening? I want him to find you. I don't want him dead, else I would have killed him in the forest yesterday. No, I want him to suffer before he dies. I want him terrified._

_Arthur doesn't scare very easily. You can't begin to understand his bravery._

_It's not about bravery or courage, boy. It's about the fear itself. Terror, true terror, is the moment when hope turns to despair. After a week of worry- first over your illness, then your kidnapping- he'll manage to track you down to this ruined safehouse. His heart will lift, seeing you here safe and sound. Just then, just when he feels safe, just when he believes that all will be well, I will cut your throat. He will watch as you crumple to the ground, he will hold you as the life pours out of your body, and he will feel true terror. Then, when he has reached the height of despair, I'll kill him too. Then, and only then, will I be satisfied._

The trader considered himself a powerful sorcerer. His gifts enabled him to hunt, trap, and escort escaped slaves back to their respective safe-houses in record time. He could out-fight any ungifted man, usually even without the help of his magic, and he had never paused to consider that the scrawny man he'd stolen from Nemeth's citadel could be a threat to him. The manservant had swept him aside like an errant fly, throwing him up against this tree and binding him in restraining ropes.

How had this happened? Was it just bad luck that he'd taken such a powerful sorcerer captive, or was it some kind of divine retribution for his sins? Had his whole career been leading up to this moment, the moment when, at long last, he was made to pay for his crimes? His mind immediately shut down that idea; he refused to believe that he'd done anything worth punishing. Every man for himself; that was how the world worked. He had done what was best for him, earning gold piece after gold piece in his work for various traders throughout the land. Money, that was the truly important thing in all this. What did he care for the pain of others, for the suffering that the people went through?

"You have condemned countless people to a life of pain and misery." The Warlock's voice cut through his thoughts like a knife slicing through butter. He focused his brown eyes on the man standing outside the circle of golden fire, shivering at the power burning within those two orbs. "You benefit from the suffering of innocents, choosing to ignore their pleas and to harden your heart to their pain." Was this the end? A final ultimatum delivered by a man whom the trader had no hope of overpowering or escaping? An execution here, tied to a hawthorn tree in the center of a circle of power? Death beside the safehouse that, mere days before, had been raided by the King of Camelot? "I can think of no better consequence than this."

The circle burned brighter, and with it, the wind picked up and buffeted the trader's body this way and that. If he wasn't tied to the hawthorn tree, he might've been thrown helplessly in the wind's grasp. As it was, he closed his eyes as it whirled around his face. But the accompanying roar he was expecting, the sound of rushing wind, never came. Instead, whispers hissed in his ears, human voices that made him cringe in surprise and fear.

"Your victims," the Warlock said. "Their voices carried across the veil on the backs of the Furies. With their flaming whips, they will cut a path into your heart, your very soul. You cannot ignore the cries of the innocent this time, nor will you be able to harden your heart to their pain. You will feel as they felt, each and every one of them." The circle burned brighter, and the whispers grew to screams of agony that made the trader's heart freeze in quivering fear. "Death is inevitable," the man said, and the trader felt his blood turn to ice at the way in which the words were said. There was no pity in that voice. He was telling him the honest, untempered truth, and there would be no pulling back.

The world began to twist and blur. The wind picked up, and the trader's head was forced back against the tree. The voices grew to deafening howls, and he couldn't see or hear anything but the wind and the voices. He couldn't make out the circle, nor could he see the Warlock who'd cursed him so. He felt something claw its way into his chest and rip him open, and he began to scream as memory after memory seized his heart.

_He was nine, and his father was lying dead on the hillside as a bald man in leather armor leered down at him. He called out to his daddy, but the body in the grass never moved to help him. He screamed, tears burning down his cheeks, and a shadow overhead made him look up at the approaching man. He was shaking, too terrified to run, and he fainted as the man's hand reached for his wrist to bind him in chains._

_She was twelve, and her birthday dress was ripped and stained as she fled from the man who'd slain her family. Branches whipped past her, and she sobbed desperately as she ran. She didn't see the surrounding forest as she went, only the still forms of her father and mother. She tripped over a root and fell face-first into a puddle, mud splashing everywhere. She felt something grab her neck and haul her upright, and her terrified green eyes met empty brown ones._

_He was twenty-six, and he was forced to watch as the sorcerer dragged away his three children. His wife screamed, tears running down her cheeks, and he wished that he could comfort her, but the man's magic held him fast. He watched his little daughter be carried away by the magic man, and he could do nothing as the trader took his moon and stars away from him. _

(-o_o-)

The screams stretched on and on, piercing the still quiet of the starlit night and sending the birds in the trees flapping away from their nests in alarm. Merlin let his hand drop to his side, the golden power fading from his eyes, leaving the twin orbs their usual shade of blue. His part in the night's magic was through; it was between the trader and his victims now. His weary gaze sought out the man's face. The golden flames of the magic circle illuminated his every feature and made each bead of sweat sparkle. His bald head seemed to shine, such was his perspiration. Veins popped out of his neck around muscles clenched beyond belief, and his bare arms were bulging against the enchanted restraints Merlin had used to bind him to the hawthorn tree.

And the screams continued, terrified, heart-wrenching shrieks of agony and pain. Merlin cast a silencing spell on the man, not wanting to attract any unwanted attention. The last thing he needed was for some random hunter (or, God forbid, Arthur) to come running at the sound of human screaming. That would take some explaining! A tortured man tied to a hawthorn tree, surrounded by a golden circle of fire, with Merlin simply watching on the sidelines- he wasn't sure that even Arthur, in his naturally oblivious state, would simply wave things aside.

The Warlock's stomach rumbled. Summoning creatures from beyond the Veil burned a lot of calories. The trader had fed him earlier; some kind of thick stew. His stomach rumbled again. Very good stew, if memory served. He hoped there was some left. He wandered away from the magic circle and headed over to where he'd eaten earlier. Yes! There was the pot, and beside it were a pair of clay bowls. Merlin leaned against the safe-house's wall, slowly eating his stew. He tried not to stare at the trader, but it was really hard not to. He was like a dead body in the way he drew his eyes.

A dead body indeed. Merlin took another bite of stew. That was probably how this would end, with the trader's lifeless body tied against the hawthorn tree. Probably. Not definitely. He hadn't been entirely truthful with the trader. Death was not inevitable; it all depended on his heart. That same heart that had closed itself off would determine his fate. There was nothing to do now but watch and wait for the trader to wake up. He just hoped that Arthur didn't ride along in the meantime.

(-o_o-)

_"You killed me." The woman floated before him, her long brown hair greasy and matted, the skin around her wrists rubbed raw by chains. _

_"No," he protested, "I didn't! I just-"_

_"Dragged me to my doom." The woman's voice sliced through him like a burning sword, and he whimpered and cowered in the face of her fury. "I had a husband, a child; I ran away in the night. I needed to see them, to hold them, again." Her voice rose like thunder, and he screamed as the force of her anger ripped into him. Her pain, her loss, bit into his soul. He felt her suffering, knew her tears. And it hurt. "But you wouldn't leave me be," she said. "You hunted me down like an animal. You shoved me into the dirt and tied me up like a pig. You may not have killed me, but you doomed me to a life of abuse and pain."_

_The trader sobbed, but then he caught himself. Who was this woman to scold him? A lowly slave, that was all. He didn't care about her or her fate; she had fetched a pretty price on the market, and that was all that mattered. He felt her pain, but he refused to feel for her. He spat at her form and screamed as his heart seemed to burst._

_(-o_o-)_

_"It was my birthday. Mama had saved up for months to buy me that dress. My sister gave me a hug, even though I stole her doll the day before. Everything was perfect. Then you came."_

_The trader whimpered, his body curled up into a ball before the young girl. "No," he said, "no, no, no." He shivered, his whole form quivering, and continued. "I don't care," he whispered, rocking back and forth, "I don't care, I don't care." _

_"You ruined everything," a man said to his left. "You killed my baby. There was no-one to feed him without me, no-one! You killed him!"_

_"I don't care," the trader whispered, his hands clawing at his ears, trying and failing to block both the voices and the emotions being carried across by the magic. _

_"You do care." This was a new voice, and a voice that didn't seem to belong to any of the surrounding spirits. "You know you do."_

_"I don't," the trader said. He sobbed. "I don't."_

_"You do," the voice asserted, "don't be afraid to admit it. You feel their pain, and you care. Look at them. Go on, don't be scared."_

_The voice was soothing, so gentle and warm, a welcome relief from the pain of the spirits. He lifted his head slowly and, with watery eyes, looked at the girl before him. Her dress had been new when he'd first met her, but three years of slavery had reduced it to tattered rags. "Dirt," she whispered, "so much dirt. I couldn't help it; I got sick."_

_"What do I do?" The trader wasn't sure who he was asking. Himself, the spirit, the voice, God, he didn't know. He just knew that this was a question that needed answering._

_"Talk to her," the voice answered, its words a soft balm to the pain. _

_"So much dirt," the girl repeated. The trader saw that her arms were wrapped around her gaunt frame, trying to hold her ripped and dirt-blackened dress together. _

_"I know," the trader said. "I remember. Dirt everywhere, in every fold of your skin. You feel like you'll never be clean, even when you get a bucket of old water to wash up in."_

_The girl sniffed. "I got sick," she said, "from the dirt. I got sick, and there was nobody to help me get better."_

_The trader stood on trembling legs and staggered towards her. He kneeled before her, a tentative hand outstretched, wanting to touch her but too afraid to make a move. "Your head feels like it's on fire," he said, his words coming both from personal memory and from the magical link between himself and the spirit, "you can feel the fog weigh you down and muddle your mind, and eventually you can't do anything but lie there and cough."_

_The girl began to cry. Water welled up in her green eyes, and her small hands gripped her sides tightly as she tried to talk through her tears. "I died b-because of you," she gasped. "I was a-alone, and there was-"_

_Her voice broke. The man pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly against him as she cried. "There was nobody there for me," she said, "nobody. I died alone because- because of you."_

_"I know," the man said, his own voice cracking. "I know. I'm sorry; I'm so sorry." He held the girl tightly against him, the pain passing between them still ripping his heart to shreds. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have done that to you, I shouldn't have- I'm sorry, so sorry. If I could change it, if I could go back and make things right, I would." He pulled the girl back and looked her in the eye. Tears gazed into tears, and he swallowed several times before speaking again. "Can you forgive me?"_

_The girl hiccuped and rubbed her eyes. She sniffed several times. "Yes."_

_The pain that had been clawing at his spirit immediately ceased. He gasped in relief, feeling warmth flood between him and the spirit he held in his arms. The girl's form shimmered and changed. The dress that had been ripped and tattered mere seconds ago mended and cleaned itself, turning the color of a bluebird's egg. Her brown hair shone as if it had been newly cleaned, and her eyes glimmered brightly. "Yes," she said again. _

_She let out a deep, shuddering breath, and pulled away from the man. "Thank you," she said, and for the first time, he saw a smile stretch across a spirit's face. Her eyes focused on something above his head, and the smile grew wider. "I can see my parents," she said. She walked away from him, her blue birthday dress swishing around her legs as she went. Then she turned and gave him the widest smile of all. "Thank you." The man blinked, and the girl was gone._

_His mouth very dry, the man spoke to the empty air. "What do I do now?"_

_"Look around you," the gentle voice whispered. He did so without hesitation, and he saw spirit after spirit standing before him, men, women, and children all in rows, all crying and wearing tattered rags. "They need you," the voice said, "and you need them."_

_"But what do I do? What do I say?"_

_"What you did for the little girl." The voice seemed to be fading, and the man felt a stab of fear at being left alone. "Listen to them. Talk with them. Ask for forgiveness. Help them move on." The voice was gone, and the man was left alone. But as he looked out on the rows of spirits, he knew he wasn't alone. He squared his shoulders and stepped up to a little boy, a boy clutching the remains of a stuffed bear. "Hello little one," he said, kneeling down, "what's your name?"_

* * *

**Sorry for the wait. I'm on a graduation trip, and there's been almost no time to sit down and write. Not all of the delay was from that, though; I'd sit down at the computer with the intention of writing something for an unseen audience, trying to churn out a chapter solely for the sake of churning out a chapter. It wasn't until I shifted my thinking to "I'm writing because I enjoy writing. I'm writing what I want to write because I want to write; I'm writing for me, not for anyone else" that the chapter began to flow. Speaking of flow, I hope you found that this chapter's segments worked together. I originally wrote this in standard chronological form, but it was just so dull that I had to delete it. I had a lot of fun writing this chapter, and I hope you liked it too. Let me know what you think- was it good? Was it bad? I'd love to hear your thoughts! Opinions, criticisms- anything you like, just drop it off in the box below. Thanks for taking the time to read, thanks if you're about to leave me a nice review, and have a nice day! Ciao!  
**


	6. Chapter 6

**Rating bumped to K+ for an implied adult theme.**

* * *

The night wove on, strands of starlight beaming down from the heavens and illuminating the former safe-house in pale silvery light. Merlin took to pacing as the long hours marched on, and while he knew that each passing minute was equal in its length, every new second felt at least twice as long as the one that came before. He kept himself moving, walking around and around the clearing beside the safe-house, trying to alleviate the bubbling pit of anxiety in his stomach. He felt anxious, too anxious to sit still, and with every long minute that passed he felt the pool of tension in his gut grow in size and ferocity.

His gaze continually flicked over to the slave-trader, who was still tightly bound to the hawthorn tree by thick ropes, and his eyes always latched immediately to his pallid expression, his pale countenance, and his shining crown as bead after bead of sweat coursed down his unprotected head. Merlin understood that the trader's state would remain constant for a long while yet, and he also knew that a change in the magic would be immediately, inescapably evident. Yet, he could not help but look over at the bound man in the circle of magic, the one who's mouth was forever stretched in a never-ending scream of purest agony. The stomach wouldn't let his gaze wander for too long; if ever he were to avert his gaze for more than a few minutes, it would begin to roil and bubble in anxious tension until he settled things by assuring it with his own two eyes that there was no change.

It had been difficult, then, to set up the boundaries in the forest around the safe-house. If Arthur were to suddenly coming riding in, or even if a random hunter were to stumble into the clearing, Merlin wanted to be prepared. The time was not yet for his King, his friend, to know the truth. Not yet. Even aside from that, Merlin didn't want his blonde friend to interfere in this. The slave-trader's situation was tenuous, and the last thing either of them needed was for a hot-headed prat to come bursting in at the wrong moment.

Anyway, that was why Merlin had cast his spells. He had magically inscribed a series of runes on the trees a little ways away from the circle of golden fire, and if anyone were to break the magical link connecting each rune, Merlin would immediately know. After a scare involving a spotted bunny rabbit, the Warlock had tuned them to react solely to a human soul. Merlin's face still burned just thinking about it; he, a sorcerer born of magic, a man destined to stand beside the Once and Future King and unite the land of Albion, had been sent scrambling by an insomniac woodland creature! He added that to the list of things that Arthur didn't need to know about.

Speaking of things that Arthur needn't find out, what was he going to tell his liege about this whole affair? Merlin bit his lip and looked again, as he had so many times that night, at the still body of the bound trader. Prat he may be, but Arthur would come looking for him. As it had been so often in the past, so it was again now. Merlin knew that if he were to cast his magic into a scrying bowl or a mystic pool, he would see his friend searching every crook and cranny of Nemeth to find him. Arthur would find him, and God help any man who stood in his way.

The warmth that came at this welcome thought was immediately frozen by the cold chill of guilt that seized his heart. Arthur was, without a doubt, ripping apart Heaven and Earth at this very moment, and what was Merlin doing? Hiding from him, hiding beside the fallen form of his defeated foe, hiding from the world as he tried to help a man whom many would say wasn't even worth a swift death. Hiding; that was all Merlin did, wasn't it? Hiding who he was, hiding from his friends, hiding the truth about all the good things he did for people. No matter how many innocents he helped, no matter how many villains he vanquished, Merlin was still a coward.

The Warlock felt his heart melt into miserable mush and dribble down his chest in sweet self-pity. Thankfully, this wasn't the first time enchanting feelings of misery had sunk their inviting fangs into his neck, sucking away all happiness and draining him entirely of self-esteem. Merlin followed some advice Gaius had given him and pinched himself, changing his thought stream's direction to something more honest, more pleasant, more real.

He wasn't being a coward, he was being a silent hero. Neither Arthur or the world was ready for Merlin's magic to come into the open yet, and so keeping his deeds a secret wasn't an act of cowardice; rather, it was an act of strength. It tore him apart every day to lie to his friend's face, but it was the right thing to do at the moment. As horrible as it was, the alternative was far worse. No, he needed to stay quiet and lie about himself. His heart yearned to tell Arthur everything, to spill every last secret and finally show himself for who he really was, but his mind knew that this was impossible.

That didn't stop the pain, though.

Merlin sighed and glanced at the slave-trader. He was doing a good thing here, simultaneously giving many tortured souls peace and helping a suffering man find truth, and he needed to focus on that. At least, that's what he hoped was happening. There were two ways this magic could go: either the man would accept his wrongs and beg forgiveness from the spirits of his victims, or the slave-trader would stick to his beliefs and stand uncaring and unsympathetic to their past and present plights. If the former were to happen, then there was hope. If the latter, then the slave-trader would die an excruciating death as his body, mind, and soul were broken by the overwhelming tides of anguish constantly beating against him. He really, really hoped that the man would find it within himself to let go of decades of hatred and apathy, but that was all he could do. He couldn't interfere in the magic, for the choice had to be the man's decision. If Merlin were to choose for him, then what meaning would the choice hold? He wished he could help, but his hands were bound. It was all up to the trader now.

Wait. Something had changed. Something about the trader was different. Merlin's eyes eagerly scanned him from top to bottom, and he quickly discovered what it was that was off. A wide smile grew on his face as he realized that something wasn't wrong; something was right! Before, the slave-trader had strained every muscle in his body against his invisible adversaries and the ropes binding him, his head stretched back, his bald crown shining with sweat, and his mustache bristling in hatred and fear as his mouth opened in an endless, silent scream of agony. Now the man leaned back against the tree, his mustache lowered, his mouth resting gently in its proper place. The only water shining on his skin were two tracts of burning liquid that streaked down his face in remorse.

All the anxiety and doubt of before was immediately wiped from the Warlock's mind. The bubbling pit of tension in his gut was replaced by a soaring feeling of warmest joy as he watched the tears trail down the man's face. The minutes stretched on, but Merlin didn't feel their length as he had before. He still paced, but from eagerness this time, not anxiety. He wanted the man to emerge from the magic, wanted to speak with him, wanted to share in the joy of this moment. It wasn't fear which propelled his legs but anticipation, and Merlin knew which he preferred.

The moment finally came. Merlin immediately halted in place, the flattened groove of grass he had created through the night forgotten as he sensed a change in the magic. He turned to stare at the hawthorn tree as the golden circle of fire flared high, higher than it ever had before, tongues of flame reaching up to the sky and whirling in a dance of life, of joy. Warmth seemed to radiate from the fire, washing over Merlin and filling him with a sense of peace and, strangely enough, gratitude. He felt his heart lurch in his chest; was this the spirits thanking him for this opportunity? He smiled at the golden flames, tears of his own beginning to pool in his blue eyes, and whispered two words. "Thank you."

In one great flash of golden light, the circle of magic disappeared. The wind that had blown about the clearing vanished, leaving the night seem oddly empty. The creatures who thrived underneath the light of the moon soon resumed their calls and cries, but Merlin still felt a hole where so many presences had once been. A groan quickly called his attention towards the hawthorn tree, where a man still hung bound. Merlin quickly ran over to it, vanishing the ropes and catching the bald man with his arms. He lowered him to the ground and leaned him against the hawthorn tree, reflexively checking his vitals. All was well.

(-o_o-)

"Here." A wet rag was pressed gently against his face, water trickling down his jaw as the Warlock wiped the sweat and tears away. He worked in silence for a few seconds, the man who had once been a trader sitting quietly against the hawthorn tree. It wasn't that the moment was awkward; rather, it felt more welcome than anything he had lived since the man had been a small child. The water seemed to wash away more than just the night's grime; it reached into his very soul, taking a lifetime of hatred and suffering and washing him free of his wrongs. "That's better."

"Thank you." It was quietly spoken, but those two words carried the weight of a thousand speeches. It was simple, but the man's response told him that he needn't say anything else.

"You're welcome."

They were silent for a few more seconds. It wasn't that they felt uncomfortable, just that there was nothing that needed saying. They didn't feel the need to fill the peaceful silence of the night with chatter. Both were satisfied simply with sitting, with being, sharing in the moments before and glorying in the wonder of it all.

"You saved me."

"You made the choice. I gave you the how: I showed you how things are. It was your decision; I didn't interfere."

The man who had once delighted in the pain of others shook his head. "But still," he said, "you saved me. You were with me when I needed help, whispering words of comfort in my ear. You helped me to see the truth and to know what I needed to do."

The man who dedicated his entire being to the service of others frowned. "I did not," he said. "I cast the spell and stepped back; like I said, I didn't interfere."

"But then," the other man said, his brown eyes furrowed underneath a hairless head, "what was that? You mentioned the Furies; was it them?"

A laugh. "The Furies wouldn't help you," he said, grinning with mirth. "They're not like that. No, this was something else. Some-_one_ else." The Warlock glanced meaningfully up at the sky, and the other man immediately understood.

A few more minutes passed in silence, both lost to their thoughts and to the quiet solace of the starlit night. Finally, the blue-eyed man spoke.

"What's your name, anyway? I just know you by 'the slave-trader,' but you have to have a name." He held out a hand for the older man to shake. "My name's Merlin," he said, "sometimes called Emrys by the Druids."

The other man took the hand, but hesitated. "I don't want to use my name," he said, "it carries the weight of 37 winters-worth of hatred." A pause. "I've heard of the one called Emrys," he said. "I would be honored if you could give me a new name."

Their hands were still clasped in a firm handshake. Merlin said nothing for a few minutes. His blue eyes seemed to bore into the other man's brown ones, piercing through the pupils and staring directly into his inner mind. He shivered from the intensity of his gaze and looked down. It was easier, much easier, to look at the red neckerchief than into those blue orbs.

"I want to call you Alonzo," the great Warlock said, "but I'm afraid that wouldn't mean much to you. Your name needs to hold importance somehow; there needs to be a reason for you having it."

Merlin paused for a second more, and the bald man who had been through so much felt apprehension building in his gut. Anticipation, fear, eagerness, and doubt all rolled around in his stomach, making him feel like he was about to be sick. There was also a little bit of incredulity mixed in; Alonzo, really? What kind of a name was that?

"Leonid," Merlin said, making it sound like 'LAY-uh-nid.' The man looked up, his brow furrowed. "That name last belonged to a woman. No, no, don't look at me like that-" for the man had made a little noise of protest at the news that he would be receiving a girl's name- "listen, and I'll tell you why I picked it." His tone changed, his words seeming to take on a heavier weight. Each sentence seemed to come from far away, painting a picture in the man's mind and drawing him inexorably into the story Merlin told.

"Leonid was a wild, unruly girl. She was never interested in the more traditional womanly practices; rather, she would spend all her time out in the woods, trekking through the trees and hunting with her small bow. One day, a friend of her noble father came to visit. He took interest in the girl and showed her how to properly use a bow, how to catch rabbits, and how to do all sorts of things that girls aren't usually taught how to do. Her mother was beside herself, but her father allowed his daughter to continue in her learning.

"One day, while they were both out hunting, her teacher assaulted her. There, as she lay alone in the forest, sobbing over what she had lost, Leonid made a vow. She would have the man's head. Her hatred worsened as the years went on. When she raised her sword in practice, she imagined that it was the man, and not a dummy, standing before her. When she pulled back an arrow, she envisioned his face leering at her, taunting her.

"She eventually made her way to the King's castle. Impressed by her prowess with the sword and bow, he took her aside. He had a job for her, if she was interested, which would involve both her diplomatic womanly presence and her skills in combat. He warned her that it would require a fair amount of traveling, but, excited by the prospect of riding across the land, she immediately agreed.

"Leonid became the King's Damosel, ferrying royal messages to lords all across the kingdom. One day, there was a great festival in the land. Leonid was sent out with summons for lords great and small, each with a personalized message from his Majesty the King. Some were simple expressions of gratitude for loyal service, but others had become very selfish and errant in their ways. They received both the festival invitation and a royal ultimatum: they could either pledge allegiance to the King, changing their ways, or they could refuse to follow their liege and be slain. Leonid was traveling with a contingent of knights for the lords who refused to heed the King's words.

"Leonid's erstwhile teacher was one of these lords. He laughed, both in recognition of the messenger and in scorn for the message. Enraged, she denounced him in his hall, loudly proclaiming the wrongs that he had done to her. Unsurprisingly, she was thrown in the dungeons, and the lord began preparations for the contingent of knights waiting outside his castle.

"There in her cell, she had- well, I guess you could say she had an epiphany. Leonid realized how pointless it was to hold hatred to her heart for so long, and she looked back on her life and was saddened by how much pain her hatred alone had caused her. No matter how good things had been before, no matter her accomplishments, no matter how pleasant the company, a black pit of anger had always been sucking at her heart, depriving her of joy and keeping her from really enjoying life. With this in mind, Leonid made the most difficult choice of her life. She chose to forgive. Half a lifetime of pain and anger, and she chose to let it go. When she was summoned to him, her arms bound in chains of iron, she told him in a calm voice that she no longer hated him for what he'd done.

"Just before the unjust lord could do more than scowl, the knights who'd accompanied Lioned burst in. Her bonds were broken, and she fought with the rest of them in the errant lord's hall. It wasn't long before he was kneeling, defeated, at her feet."

Merlin paused there, his eyes seeming to reflect the stars above and the forest about them. The listening man shuffled and said, "what happened? Did she kill him?"

"Oh," Merlin said, blinking and refocusing on the bald man before him, "yes. Yes, she killed him."

"But you said she forgave-"

"She forgave him for what he'd done to her, yes, but that didn't mean she wasn't going to slay him. He hadn't been following the orders of the King, and he was also a terrible tyrant; his people were suffering greatly under his rule. Remember, his Majesty had sent Leonid with an ultimatum to all the errant lords: pledge true allegiance or die. She had a duty to kill him, both to the people and to the King, which she fulfilled. Yet the stroke that ended his life was not made for revenge or hatred. There was no blackness in her heart when she cut him down, only sorrow and pity for the sake of the man who had fallen so far."

Merlin looked the man directly in the eyes now. Piercing blue met dark brown, and the bald man felt paralyzed by the light burning behind the Warlock's eyes. He wanted to look away, yet he didn't seem capable of moving his head. "Your name," he said clearly, his words ringing with power, "is Leonid. Let her story be an inspiration for your own. By taking this name, may you draw upon her strength in times of need... Leonid."

(-o_o-)

"What will you do?" Merlin stood beside Leonid, both their faces brightly illumined by flickering orange light.

"I'm not sure," the bald man responded honestly. Leonid reached up and rubbed his mustache, his brown eyes lost in the light that lit up the whole of the night sky. "Any ideas?"

Merlin shrugged. "You could be a simple farmer, living off the land in peace for the rest of your days?"

Leonid shook his head. "No," he said. "That's not it." He frowned, wondering whether what he was about to say was right. What if what he was thinking was a sign of his old habits coming through, and what if- because of them- Merlin deemed him irrevocably lost? The thought was strange and alien, but it still managed to poke him sharply in his stomach. He chanced a glance at the Warlock beside him, whose blue eyes were also staring into the orange lights, and decided to take the risk and trust. "I have many gifts," he said slowly. "Magic, tracking, combat; it doesn't seem right to abandon them. I was thinking," he swallowed, "that I should use them."

"How so?" Merlin's voice was serenely neutral, and Leonid plunged on.

"All those spirits," he said, his words coming out quickly now, "they were put through so much pain; I was put through so much pain. All because of slavery. I know it's illegal, that some countries forbid the practice, but that doesn't change the fact that it's still going on. I want to spend what time I have left fighting against that, doing whatever I can to help whoever I can. I want to keep this from happening again; I don't want anyone else to have to suffer like this." His mind flashed to the girl in the ripped birthday dress, to the boy holding a demolished stuffed bear, and his heart seemed to break all over again.

"That is noble of you, Leonid," Merlin said, and he felt a flash of warm pride at the name, "and I can think of no better action to take. Dedicating your life to keeping innocent people safe is the best thing a man can do with his life; I'm proud that this is your choice."

The Warlock turned, the orange light casting half of his face into shadow. He held out a hand for the other sorcerer to shake. "I hope we meet again, Leonid."

A lump was forming in the slave-saver's throat, but he forced it down. He took the hand and shook, meeting the smaller man's eyes and smiling. It was strange, he noted idly, so strange that the man before him was who he was. In all appearances, he was nothing but a scrawny young man with large ears and bright blue eyes. Yet beneath that exterior was a man of ancient wisdom, a Warlock of immense power, and though Leonid looked down at the shorter man, he felt like he was gazing up into the boundless sky.

"Yes," he said, gripping Merlin's hand firmly. "We will. If not in this life, then certainly in the next." He grinned suddenly. "Unless you're immortal or something. Then we may never see each other again!"

Merlin laughed. "Yeah," he said, "I'll be right here in a thousand years, still doing exactly the same thing."

They smiled. The handshake was broken. Leonid turned to leave the clearing. "Thank you, Merlin," he said, his brown eyes meeting Merlin's blue ones for the last time, "for everything. Thank you." He smiled and walked into the forest, disappearing into its dark depths. He didn't look back once.

Many a long moment later, Merlin turned back to the flames. They were casting a bright orange light over everything, and Merlin knew that the beacon would soon alert Arthur to his presence. The blonde would come like a moth to the flames, and he would find Merlin waiting for him. The forest was safe- Merlin had made sure of that- and there was nothing to do now but sit and watch the flickering tongues of flame reach up to the night sky.

The Warlock settled in to wait, sitting in the grass and feeling the heat from the fire warm his tired body. What a night! So soon after recovering from an illness, he had cast powerful magic and helped a man change the course of his life. He had kept vigil over his still form for many an hour, and both his body and mind were exhausted. He was grateful for the fire; the night had started to become a little chilly. That wasn't its main purpose, of course. It was an important symbol, the culmination of the day's events.

The safe-house burned, and Merlin felt at peace. He wasn't worried about Leonid; the night had long since proven to him of his change. He wasn't worried about Arthur, either, though he still wasn't sure what he would say. Things would work out; he knew that. His eyelids felt very heavy, and his head seemed stuffed with gray gauze. He lay down in the grass, his body kept comfortably warm by the heat of the flames, and closed his eyes.

He wasn't worried about himself, either. Leonid was living proof that anyone could change. The man had ripped children away from their families, but he had turned his back on all that. Merlin had started to doubt that people could really change, but Leonid proved him wrong. His faith in people was restored, and Merlin felt a warmth in his chest that couldn't entirely be attributed to the nearby flames. Maybe, he thought, even someone like Morgana could change. Maybe underneath all the hate, all the rage, there was still a good person underneath. Maybe Merlin could reach that person, if he really tried. He had, truth be told, given up on her. His stomach churned as he admitted it to himself, but he had. He had signed her off as 'irredeemable,' but was she? If the slave-trader could turn slave-saver, could the wicked witch become a shining sorceress?

Merlin sighed, letting his thoughts drift away like leaves caught in an autumn wind. He shifted a little in the grass, getting a little more comfortable, and let himself float out onto an ocean of warmth. It had been a long, long night. It was time to sleep.

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**There's the next chapter! Only one more to go now, I think. I'd like to make an epilogue with Arthur before putting the "COMPLETE" tag onto this story. I really enjoyed writing this chapter; it was a blast to do. I wonder if anyone caught the Doctor Who reference. :P**

**The story about Leonid was adapted from "The King's Damosel," which was what Disney's "Quest for Camelot" movie was loosely, loosely based on. It's a great read. I left things out and changed some stuff to make it easier to fit in a short synapsis; the real story is a bit more complicated than what I put here. The character's name is actually Lynette, but a gender-swap sequence would've detracted from the "YOUR NAME IS" thing. I hope my rendition of the tale wasn't dull to read; it was really fun to write, and I hope it was fun to read. **

**Like I said, this chapter was really fun to do. Please let me know if you enjoyed reading it, or if there were parts that you think could use some fixing up. I love compliments and criticisms, especially when the two are sandwiched together, lol. Did you guys like the slave-trader's character development? I tried to show more of the traditional side of Merlin here, the side that Arthur only sees in glimpses. I hope you enjoyed it. Anyway, thanks for reading, thanks if you're about to leave me a nice review in the box below, and I hope you have a great day! Ciao!**


	7. Chapter 7

_Epilogue_

_That same day_

Arthur had been King for years, a Knight for even longer, and a Prince for his entire life. He had been extensively trained in all military traditions and tactics, and the art of war had been so thoroughly drilled into him that even in his dreams he was going over battle maneuvers and difficult combat scenarios. He had led his Knights on many a quest through the years, across dense forest and blistering desert, and he was proud to have so many experiences under his belt. Whether it was defeating some magical monster that was terrorizing the people, knocking sense into an errant lord, or even just clamping down on overzealous bandits, Arthur had always been in the forefront, and he had nearly always succeeded. Why, it would be easier for the fair-haired King to list those missions where something went irrevocably wrong than to tick off those in which he had emerged successful. His prowess was without question, and his the list of his deeds was long and impressive.

So why, then, was he unable to keep one person safe? Even someone so idiotic and clumsy as Merlin? How many times had his manservant been attacked, captured, poisoned, taken hostage, or tortured now? He didn't want to count them, and his stomach seemed to boil just by thinking about it. But really, with all his Knightly prowess and Kingly powers, shouldn't he be able to protect someone better? Couldn't he point his royal finger at his raven-haired manservant and put a bubble around him, shielding him from all things in the world that might do him harm? Arthur snorted; that bubble would need restraints if it were to protect him, because the warrior was sure that Merlin would always find a way to get himself into trouble.

That was the problem, though, wasn't it? It wasn't that Arthur was a bad protector, it was that his idiotic, clumsy, foolish, loyal manservant kept repeatedly flinging himself in harms way in stupid-but-brave attempts to keep Arthur safe. Arthur felt like groaning at the very thought. Merlin always felt like he had some sort of duty to keep his liege safe when things really should be working the other way around. Arthur was the one who's body was a killing machine, trained since birth in the formidable art of snuffing out the lives of his enemies. Arthur was the one with noble blood, blood that his dearly departed Father had insisted was the thing that made people worthwhile. Arthur was the one supposed to be risking his life for others' safety; that was what being a Knight meant. But for some inexplicable reason, his peasant of a servant felt that he was absolutely required to sacrifice himself for everyone around him. Arthur felt like smashing something- couldn't he just accept his place, stand back, and let Arthur handle everything? Couldn't he stay safe for ten minutes and let Arthur smoothly step in, like he should, and easily conquer every adversary? Why did he keep having to overstep his bounds and throw himself in harm's way? Couldn't he just... not?

But then, he wouldn't be Merlin if he did 'just not.' Ever since that first day so long ago, the raven-haired boy had been sticking his skinny neck out for everyone else, sidelining his own safety and nearly killing himself every time he did. The boy had had no sense of self-preservation then, and he clearly didn't have any now. But that was what made him Merlin; that and the infuriating, ever-present smile, the annoying wake-up calls, and the insolent back-chat that would've had any other noble toss him in the dungeons to stew over the social hierarchy. If Merlin did ever step back and let other people help those in need like Arthur wished, he wouldn't be Merlin anymore.

Not that this particular situation was entirely his manservant's fault. He could hardly help being sick, and it wasn't like he'd asked to be kidnapped. Although, Arthur was sure that if he could scrutinize every moment of Merlin's life for the past few days, he would be able to find some reason why this was all Merlin's fault. He'd probably done something stupid while Arthur had his back turned. Nothing unusual there; he had a habit of sneaking off and getting himself into trouble. Maybe Arthur would tie a bell around his neck. The thought made the monarch grin- it would make a nice addition to his neckerchief. The idea of the look on his manservant's face when Arthur presented to him his new accessory was enough to make the King chuckle out loud.

"What is it?" It was a soft voice, a woman's. Arthur looked over to his left to see a pair of warm brown eyes looking curiously over at him.

"Oh," he said, still grinning, "just thinking that Merlin would look nice with a bell around his neck."

Mithian laughed, pulling her white horse closer to Arthur's to make conversation easier. "He would," she said, her eyes twinkling, "but I don't think he'd agree!"

"No," Arthur said, his mouth twitching with mirth, "no he wouldn't. Tell you what; I'll hold him down, and you tie it to his neckerchief."

"Sounds like a plan," Mithian said. She paused for a moment, their two horses riding together through the dark forest. "You're not angry with him," she said softly, "are you?"

Arthur considered the question for a second, then shook his head. "He can't help being an idiot," he said. "It's like being angry at a puppy for yapping or for chasing its tail."

"Merlin's a puppy now?" Mithian's voice trembled, like she was on the verge of laughing again.

"A stupid one," Arthur said. "With really floppy ears, too. One of those tiny dogs that barks and growls at everything bigger than it."

"His ears aren't that bad," Mithian said, and there was something in her voice that Arthur couldn't quite place. "Big, but not bad."

"Eh, I suppose," Arthur said, scratching the back of his neck and shrugging.

"Are you worried about him?" Mithian's eyes glinted, and Arthur scowled. She already knew the answer- or, at least, she thought she did. She'd been telling him ever since Merlin caught sick that he was freaking out too much, stressing over something quite manageable, and she was of the opinion that he actually _cared _for his raven-haired manservant. She was probably just playing the same old game, trying to get him to admit something that wasn't true. Arthur groaned internally; what _wasit_ with the women in his life? Always pushing for Arthur to admit that Merlin was more than a manservant to him- Gwen did it, Morgana used to do it, Mithian was doing it right now; heck, even Gwaine did it!

"No," he snapped, feeling a vicious sense of satisfaction at the way she blinked and flinched back every so slightly at the unexpected ire in his voice. "No, I'm not worried. I'm angry that the idiot has gotten himself into trouble again." He didn't miss the tiny smirk she gave as he contradicted what he'd just said not thirty seconds before. He felt his face heat up in embarrassment. "Stupid forest," he cursed, glaring all around at the obscuring trunks, bushy leaves, and twisting branches of the trees all around them. "How hard can it be to find one manservant?"

Mithian was quiet for a moment, and when she spoke, her voice was wary. "Arthur," she said, "it's getting late." Yes, the sky had been darkening steadily for the last few hours. Arthur wanted to snap a retort back at her- thank you, Mithian, he hadn't at all noticed that it was getting harder and harder to see. He knew, though, that this sort of comment would be taken badly by anyone who wasn't a certain raven-haired, blue-eyed manservant, so he stayed quiet. "We've searched all the nearby villages," none of which had actually yielded anything but a wasted handful of hours, "and he wasn't in any of them."

Really? They hadn't found Merlin? That was so surprising- and here Arthur thought that they were just riding through the woods on a whim! What a fount of information this one was! What would she be telling him next, he wondered? That they were in a forest? No, Mithian, really? "Arthur, I know you want to find him as soon as possible, but..." On some level, Arthur knew he shouldn't be insulting her, even in his mind. Deep down, he felt ashamed at his thoughts, but that was only deep down somewhere inside. The rest of him was viciously lambasting her and enjoying every second of it. "I think it's time we set up camp for the night."

"We're not stopping." His voice was firm, and there was such heat in his words that he was surprised when she didn't flinch again. He sometimes forgot that this wasn't a typical noblewoman; this was a strong ruler, a huntress, a warrior who commanded Arthur's respect.

"Arthur." There was that tone. That 'be reasonable' tone that always infuriated him. He wasn't a child, he was a King! Nobody should use that tone with him; not Merlin, not the lords in the council, not even Mithian. His Father had always treated him like a child, rarely listening to his son's words and never giving him the respect, the proud compliments, Arthur so desperately needed to hear. Like a man dying of thirst, he had drank up every scrap of praise he could get, but there was never enough; his Father never stopped patronizing him and acting like he was still a pre-pubescent boy. Whenever someone used that tone with him now, even years after his Father's death, he felt the same pain and anger that he had then.

"We can't help Merlin if we're too tired to fight," she said. Arthur huffed, but she continued resolutely on. "Think about it, Arthur!" He had thought about it; what did she think he was, stupid? It was Merlin's job to not-think, not his. "This is a sorcerer we're dealing with," she said, and Arthur felt the familiar tingle of dread, of hate, shoot down his spine at the word. "He broke into the castle and stole him from my citadel with barely any effort; this isn't some bandit you can cut down, Arthur, this is serious!"

"I know!" It wasn't a hiss, a quiet proclamation, or a serene statement. It was a shout, a yell that sent some animals crashing through the bushes in fearful flight. "You think I don't know that? Of course it's dangerous! But what else can we do? I have to find him, Mithian- I can't not look for him. This isn't a ransom; there's no reason for this sorcerer to keep him alive!"

"Arthur-"

"Either he's the typical mage who wants revenge for the Purge or he's connected to the slave caravan I wiped out- the only thing we've really done since coming to Nemeth. Either way, there's no motivation for keeping Merlin alive. He's taunting me, Mithian, pulling me in so he can try and kill me, but Merlin's life doesn't factor in. If he finds Merlin too annoying, which the idiot definitely is, he'll have no reason not to kill him. He could be already dead, for all we know, but I'm not going to stop looking until I find him."

"Arthur-"

"You can sleep if you want to," Arthur said, his blue eyes burning into the forest trail directly before him, "but I'm going on ahead."

"Arthur, look!" Arthur looked up. There was a bright orange light shining through the trees, illuminating the sky and obscuring the stars with a black pillar of smoke. Fire. Merlin? Without another word, the two of them sped off towards the light, the guards and Knights they'd brought with trailing behind them.

Arthur glanced to his left. Mithian was riding quickly through the trees, her eyes narrowed in concentration. "You're coming with, then?" He shouldn't have said it, he knew, but his tongue reflected the angry haze still covering his thoughts.

Mithian glared at him, and he regretted saying anything. "You're not the only one who cares about Merlin," she said, irritation barely showing in her voice. She looked back to the path, returning her attention to the difficult job of speeding through a wild forest.

Arthur let the silence spin on awkwardly, wanting to say something to patch things up between them but not sure what the words were he was supposed to say. He couldn't- wouldn't- say she was right earlier, because she wasn't. He would keep searching until he found Merlin or his horse was forced to a stop. Under normal circumstances, he would've said that resting was extremely important, but this wasn't a normal circumstance. This was a hostage situation where the kidnapper had no reason to keep his captive alive. Time was of the essence, and if he waited for a night, there may not be a Merlin for him to find.

The very idea of Merlin lying cold and bloody on the forest floor nearly stopped Arthur's heart. He refused to dwell on the image rapidly taking shape in his mind, focusing entirely on spurring his horse forward. His eyes were trained on the burning orange light in the distance, on the black pillar of smoke so large and so near that it covered the night sky and blotted out the stars.

"What do you think it is?" Mithian called over to him, her white horse flecked with sweat as she pushed its tired body on to newer and greater speeds. "A forest fire?"

He narrowed his eyes, and though it hurt to stare at such a bright light so late at night, he kept his gaze focused on it as long as he could. "No," he said finally, ducking under a tree branch that would've unhorsed him, "it's stationary, as far as I can see."

"A house, then?"

"Here? In the middle of the woods?" Arthur had scarcely said it when realization crashed into him with all the force of a great thunderclap. He reeled back and cursed as his brain put two and two together. "The slave caravan, of course! If he really wanted revenge for the raid, what better place to go? God, I'm so stupid!" He brought his heels down against the horse's sides. "Hiya!"

They burst through the trees. There it was, burning brightly against the dark backdrop of the ancient trees and timeless sky. The caravan's safe-house was burning. Bright orange tongues of flame climbed up the walls and licked up at the stars, spitting thousands of burning embers up into the sky and spewing an enormous column of black smoke into the sky. Red whips lashed all along the building's surface, tearing down the roof and ripping bits of wall to the ground. And the noise! Such a cacophony of hisses, cracks, snaps, and crashes Arthur had seldom heard. It brought back memories, dark memories, of when an ancient dragon had flown through the night sky and set nearly all of Camelot ablaze.

"Arthur, look!" Mithian was already leaping from her saddle, running towards the fire. Arthur looked and saw a dark shape huddled in the grass, lying still before the great bonfire that roared so close by.

"Merlin!" The cry was at once relieved and terrified. Arthur was already moving, dismounting his horse and sprinting across the grass to where his manservant lay. He skidded to a halt and knelt down, grabbing the raven-haired boy's shoulders and shaking him roughly. "Merlin! Merlin!"

Those few seconds Arthur spent shaking him seemed the longest of his life. All he could see was the boy's lolling head, his closed eyes, and his still form. His breath hitched, and his heart seemed to pound so fast and so hard that he was amazed it didn't burst out of his chest.

Then Merlin groaned, and Arthur nearly cried from relief. Two eyelids cranked open, bloodshot blue eyes staring up at him. "What?" His voice was groggy, his words slurred, but he was alive. And that was all Arthur cared about. "Arthur?"

"You idiot!" Arthur exclaimed, shaking Merlin's shoulders one more time and pushing him onto the grass. "You are by far the stupidest person I've ever met in my life! What on earth were you thinking?"

"What are you talking about?" Merlin's voice was bleary and fogged, like he was talking from a long way off. "Thinking, what?"

Arthur huffed. "Exactly," he said, "you weren't thinking at all!"

"Arthur," Mithian interjected, "it's not his fault. He was sick; he couldn't help being kidnapped. You said yourself that Merlin wasn't to blame."

"It's not important right now," Arthur said, blustering as Merlin's blue eyes turned back to him, "where's the sorcerer?" The Knights and guards were drawing near, now, setting up a protective circle around the three of them. Their swords were up, looking out into the bright night, waiting for the one who'd broke into the citadel and assaulted their Princess to show himself.

"Gone," Merlin mumbled, "gone."

"Gone?" Arthur's voice was stretched, and he shook Merlin's shoulders again in frustration. He felt both a flash of regret and satisfaction as the raven-haired manservant groaned at the uncomfortable movement. "What do you mean, gone?"

"Gone," Merlin repeated, "gone like the wind. Wooshing through the valley, haha." He rolled his eyes up to Mithian and grinned, his unfocused blue eyes staring into her brown ones. "Fire," he said, "burning, burning, burning fire."

"Delusional," Mithian said, her voice unsteady as she ripped her gaze away to focus on Arthur. "He must still be sick. This whole thing can't have been good for him; we have to get him back to the citadel."

"Right," Arthur said, gathering Merlin in his arms (ignoring his giggly "whee"). The mumbling manservant didn't shut up, though, and Arthur had to resist the temptation to shake him. "Merlin," he said, "which way did the sorcerer go?"

"Got a girl's name," Merlin said, giggling, "I gave it to him, you know, Arthur."

"That's nice, Merlin," Arthur said impatiently, "now which way did he go?"

Merlin shrugged and waved his arm vaguely, taking in the whole of the forest in the gesture. "'E went that-a-way," he said, and he began to laugh, coughing with every breath. "But he's, he's, he's," he pulled on the top of Arthur's armor, trying to pull the blonde's head nearer. "He's fine now, Arthur," he said, each word slurred as if he'd had one too many tankards of ale, "fine! Spirits came, and he apologized, and-"

"Merlin," Arthur said, cutting across his delusional mumblings, "shut up."

"Fan out," the Princess ordered, and the assembled warriors immediately broke off into the woods to search for the sorcerer's trail. "This doesn't make sense," she said to Arthur, "why would he burn his own safe-house?"

Arthur shrugged, standing up and holding Merlin tightly in his arms. "Maybe he didn't want us to find something, or maybe it's some kind of twisted memorial."

"But where is he? And why leave Merlin alive?" Mithian walked with Arthur back to the horses, her warm brown eyes glinting in confusion. "You said it yourself, he had every reason to kill him. If he wanted to kill you, or even just hurt you, why did we find Merlin alive?"

"Sorry," Merlin grumbled, his voice a little muffled by Arthur's armor, "I'll have them stab me next time."

"No, Merlin," she laughed, darting near and tousling his hair. A part of her wondered why she did that, why she felt the need to establish contact with the raven-haired manservant, but the rest of her quashed it down and attributed it to simple relief and camaraderie. "You know what I mean," she said to Arthur.

"Yes," he said, "you're right. It doesn't make sense. But for now, all we can do is go back to Nemeth and help Merlin." Strangely enough, he didn't sound all too concerned about the sorcerer's motives, nor did he seem interested in pursuing him through the night.

Mithian noticed the change from his dogged, unceasing perseverance to his easy acceptance and grinned. She quickly schooled her face into a serious expression and nodded to the limp form in the King's arms. "I could have one of the Knights bring Merlin back," she said, fighting her facial muscles to keep them from breaking out into a smirk, "so you could track this sorcerer yourself."

"Absolutely not," Arthur said swiftly, and she nearly laughed out loud.

"Got what you came for," she said slyly, "eh, Arthur?"

"Shut up, Mithian."

By the following day, the physician had completely cleared Merlin. No fevered shaking, no delusional mutterings, and (though he didn't say it) no turning the King into a blonde storm of hyperactive anxiety. This event mysteriously coincided with a feast Mithian suddenly decided to throw in Arthur's honor. Never before had the blonde monarch seen servants so happily prepare a feast than the ones in the citadel. When he'd asked the Princess why they were so cheerful, she had just laughed and said that they were happy Merlin was well. Arthur didn't understand why they cared, but, like so many things in his life, he decided to take it in his stride.

Arthur never would find out what exactly had happened that night. Unfortunately, when Merlin was fully recovered and finally dismissed by a very relieved physician, he was unable to tell Arthur what had happened between him and the sorcerer. Frogface, whose nick-name which was rapidly catching on all throughout the citadel, told the blonde monarch that it wasn't uncommon for delusional, feverish patients to not remember their episodes. Nothing could be done for it; the sorcerer would have to live another day. Arthur had been frustrated by his manservant's ignorance, calling him an idiot and storming off, but secretly he was just glad that the oaf was alright. The escape of the kidnapper was a small price to pay for Merlin's life.

Merlin did seem a little more pensive than usual after that night; sometimes Arthur caught him staring out their room's window, his eyes deep and his face haunting. Arthur didn't know what that was all about, but then, Merlin got like this sometimes. And anyway, it must be disconcerting to lose a whole night of your life. Arthur imagined it to be like a giant black hole in Merlin's mind, impossible to look away from and hopelessly incomprehensible.

With Merlin's recovery came the time to leave Nemeth. Arthur didn't want to say goodbye to Mithian, with whom he enjoyed a friendship and camaraderie that he usually only experienced with his Knights. Their friendship was a strange blend of girly warmth and manly contest; the latter was all too familiar to Arthur, and he gladly fell into the welcome patterns of teasing and competition, but the former was very strange. The only people with whom he shared that kind of bond were Gwen and Merlin- but only when Arthur really needed someone to talk to, of course. It was alien, and Arthur didn't know what to do with it, but he enjoyed it nevertheless. He was sad to have to bid her farewell, but they both promised to keep in touch and to visit whenever their royal schedules allowed it.

As they rode out of Nemeth's citadel, the castle servants cheering and waving goodbye, Arthur felt a warmth begin to spread in his chest that had nothing to do with the sunshine. He looked to his right, where Merlin rode beside him, chattering away about something or another. Arthur wasn't really listening to what he was saying; he'd begun tuning him out once they'd mounted their horses. He would never admit it to anyone- not to Mithian and certainly not to Merlin- but he liked his manservant, and he was glad that the big-eared idiot was safe. His stomach churned, almost as if this silent admittance wasn't enough, but he ignored it.

Something wet splashed his face, and Arthur reeled back, sputtering as water dripped down his jaw. He looked over to see Merlin laughing on his horse, pointing a full skin of water at his liege. "Are you awake now?"

"Merlin!" Arthur swore, wiping the water from his face and glaring at his raven-haired manservant. "What was that for?"

Merlin leaned forward, his blue eyes glinting mischievously. "For not listening to me, prat."

Arthur scowled. "I don't listen to you because you're an idiot," he said, "idiot."

Merlin opened his mouth to respond and gagged as a stream of water soared through the air and dove down his throat. Arthur had snaked his hand down to his own pack, grabbing his waterskin and waiting for just the right to moment to strike.

"Bulls-eye," he said, smirking with satisfaction.

"Oh," Merlin said once he had finished gagging, "this means war."

Blue met blue. Their two gazes locked, neither daring to breathe. One second... two seconds... then, both at exactly the same time, they brought their waterskins up and squeezed.

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(-o_o-)

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**Well, there it is, the last chapter! This has been a really instructive experience for me; not only did I break out of my comfort zone by beginning a multi-fic, but I also learned a few things about myself and about writing along the way. I had never realized just how good it felt to end a chaptered story and completely wrap up a plot. Writing this chapter, being able to put together a happy ending that had bits from all the chapters woven into it, felt really good. I would say that this was my favorite chapter to write, but I honestly enjoyed the last chapter just as much, and I probably enjoyed the one before that too. That's the real secret to success, I think; not only having the dedication to keep writing, but also to always have in mind the enjoyment, the interest, and the love of just writing that initially made me post the first chapter.**

**Thanks for sticking with me through this and posting reviews! If you could leave any constructive criticism, it would be much appreciated. You won't see any other fics from me for a while: my summer's going to be largely internet-less. I've got a half-completed modern multific with Merlin, Freya, and Morgana ready and waiting on my computer for when I get back, though, so keep an eye out. **

**Again, anything you could leave me would be great. Did you like the chapter? I hope it was as satisfying an ending for you as it was for me. Thoughts, criticisms, anything- you're welcome to drop it off in the review box below. I hope you enjoyed this story, and I hope to see you all again! Thank you for taking the time to read, thank you to all of you reviewers, thank you if you're about to take a moment to type up a comment, and I hope you have a great day and a wonderful summer! Ciao! **

**-Quill**


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